


Destiny is a bitch

by LorenIndra



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Bad Poetry, Denial of Feelings, F/M, I wrote this instead of therapy, Lack of Communication, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Spoilers, The Witcher Lore, Vaginal Sex, misogynistic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorenIndra/pseuds/LorenIndra
Summary: but only if you are.Or, the one where Jaskier has been Geralt’s destiny all along.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 178





	1. The Fool

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hope you watched the show, played the game and read the book (not in that order, come on), because it’s a fusion of all three! So, Easter eggs, find them all.
> 
> Some quotes/scenes are taken directly from the book/tv-show/game. I don't own any of them and that makes me sad.
> 
> Also sorry for mistakes, fluent English is a privilege.
> 
> Updating from 20.02.2021 for better formatting. And editing (we will see about that, but probably it's a lie). The whole piece will return eventually (i hope so).
> 
> Enjoy!

He says, using all his composure to keep his voice steady, “When I was but a little boy, I stayed at my uncle’s mansion in Kerack. I was a friendly kid, a bit shy, but making new friends has never been difficult for me. Of course, they were not real friend, just a bunch of bratty boys whose daddies were as rich as mine was. We all were extremely bored, strangers in a strange land, keeping ourselves busy wandering around the city without purpose. I would not say we were very resourceful, especially without our governesses to entertain us all day long, but we managed.

The one thing you should know about Kerack is that it is not the centre of the Continent. So, it is safe to say we managed rather poorly.

But everything changed on Midsummer. It was a big day, you know. The city bloomed with people from the nearest villages. And there was a fair, too. Every decent city should have a fair once in a while.

I loved Kerack’s marketplace. The smell, the sound. It was vast, not trapped between houses, and you could see the sea from there. I have recently heard that they rebuilt this area, so the new warehouses block the view. Anyway, that day it was especially crowded. Everybody wanted to visit the fair.

And we were not an exception. But before we went there, one of my friends said that there was a real mage. The Oracle, from a country far-far away, who could tell future. He was so enthusiastic about it; it did not take too long until other were poisoned with this idea too.

I need to add, I don’t think any of them believed in magic. Or gave the fortune-telling any significance whatsoever. We saw it as merely a game, something to distract us for five minutes. Because none of us was of a humble origin; we knew that we were destined for great deeds, for killing dragons, saving maidens, winning wars. So young, yet we had the clearest idea about how our futures would look like. And yet, my friends burnt with desire to ask Juno, the Oracle (at least it’s what a man in the funny clothes called her, shouting near a tent), about their destiny. I think they loved the idea that somebody who was not their parents, who wielded magic, would assure them that they were special. Magic was a magical word.

If only I could predict I would not have anything to brag about. I still hope she did not tell them what they told me after. I cannot imagine she could say something childish like “well, Faust, look at you, you will plough so many women, some of them are princess!”

I had a bad feeling about that from the start. I did not want to go. I wish I knew, but I did not. Maybe if I knew, they would never manage to convince me.

But they managed. I still see that day like through the veil of water. The sun was shining so bright, right in my eyes, so I could not see other boys, only hear them. _Do you want to go see a mage?_ One of them asked me, his voice high, mixing with the sound of the crowd. My head started to spin. I replied, quietly, looking down at my shoes, _I don’t believe in magic_ , because I was not a peasant, afraid of witches from the swamps. I was also almost an adult, thirteen next spring; my father had said I was going to marry Moira and, honestly, I don’t remember who she was, probably some duke’s daughter.

I asked them, _why would I believe that magic is real? It is just a fairytale, to scare you lot to behave!_

Was I scared? I don’t know. I don’t remember.

But I did not want to know my future anyway. I loved surprises. Guessing what daddy prepared for me for the next Yule was much more exciting than actually receiving gifts.

I have never been spiteful. But that day, they must have said something that made me feel like an idiot. The next things I knew – the sky is so blue and bright and innocent, and we were standing at the entrance of the tent. I heard laugh, from a boy coming out. He told us he was going to be a knight and marry a princess, and they would live happily ever after.

Which was a lie, mind you. We went to the Oxenfurt Academy together. He died from fisstech overdose, surrounded by whores, two months before graduation.

Then somebody screamed it was my turn. I hesitated, looking at the tent, hoping that maybe something would come to rescue me and I would not have to go inside. But one of the boys pushed me forward. Such a low-blow, you know how fond I am of a dramatic entrance.

Inside was stuffy and dark, but not the black dark – it was pinkly-violet. The smell here – it still reminds me of the theatre. Well, the air and the purpose are the same, after all.

I did not see her, at first, but when my eyes finally got used to the dim light from the candles surrounding her, Geralt, it was a sight hard to forget. She was so young, younger than me, perhaps. Just a girl, and nobody said she was just a girl. And you probably don’t know that, but you should be very powerful for rich boys to respect you, especially when you are just a girl. Her red wild curls copied the flame from the candles, being the fire of fire; something about that made he look more dangerous that many men with swords were. Her skin was a marble, the highest sort. Her clothes left too little for twelve years old boy imagination. I could see the veins on her chest, surreally purplish in that light. She was sitting there, calm, like a statue, with her eyes closed, moles on her faces dancing like the tiniest sparks.

For a second, I thought, maybe, just maybe, magic was real after all. Something must have conceived her, and I am sure no man is capable of producing something so marvellous.

She opened her eyes and I saw my own soul in them.

Because there was nothing more see.

They were empty. And I am not speaking about substance here, I am speaking about her irises. Her eyes were completely white, like the first snow, like virginity alive. Ofiri cotton would be envious of this white.

I said, “Hello there.” Because there was not a special etiquette for talking with small girls who could read future. I tried to look everywhere but her eyes; not to be polite, though; I was suddenly shy and, honestly, terrified.

“Greetings, Julian.”

How could she know my name? I did not know what I know now back then; for me, magic was not the part of my world’s picture, and I thought somebody who was there before me told her. Maybe one of the boys slipped it out, maybe it was that man in the funny clothes, eavesdropping our conversation earlier. But no matter how she found out, I was standing there, chanting, inwardly, _magic does not exist_ and _I don’t want to know_.

“Come, sit with me,” she said. Her voice was not something unnatural. You know that the first thing you forget about a person is a voice? And her was no different to other girls’ voices. I did not know many, but my cousin sounded exactly the same. High and squeaky. Girlish. Unpleasant.

Something pulled me closer, because I certainly did not have enough energy to move on my own; my knees were shacking like after that time I had stolen the bottle of my father’s Est-Est and drunk it alone.

I sat, like a charmed snake from the tent nearby, though I imagine there was nothing graceful about me.

It’s hard to describe what I felt. It was suddenly very chilly and five minutes ago I was dying from the overheating. It was also very quiet, I heard candles crackling; like we, somehow, ended up in another Sphere; like we were not at Kerack’s crowdy marketplace anymore.

And I have always hated silence, so I started talking, without giving a second thought to what I was going to say. I blurted things like, “Is Juno your real name? How old are you? Are you blind? You are so beautiful. I am going to marry Moira and I have only ever seen her portrait, but you are the most beautiful, I swear! Can we be friends? Am I going to be great, as the boys that came before me? Am I going to be a knight, right? Kill dragons and… and…”

Well, silence that fell after my little monologue was way worse, ringing in my ears, piercing the space itself. But I stopped, because she looked like she did not listen. It’s hard to say if somebody is listening when they stare somewhere behind you, unblinking.

I am also so ashamed because of what I said to her no. There are things you never ask women about, I think you are quite familiar with them, too. But how I was supposed to know that at twelve. Though, some says I am still not very good at this.

But she actually answered. “You paid for one question and I will give you one answer. You shall not pick,” or something like that. And yes, her voice was high, but her accent was thick, and it was the last thing I was thinking about before our eyes met and everything was illuminated.

I think I saw something, too. Thousands of lives I could live, thousands of paths I could travel. They all were there, impossible to grasp, only for her to really look at. Only for her to choose from. I still did not believe in magic and here we were, prying into my future and only one of us actually got to decide which variant was going to be me destiny.

Later, I felt so hopeless because of this. I even spoke with some professors in Oxenfurt. They all said I should just comply, because there is no way I can cheat the universe.

But, back at the tent, I felt nothing except from delightful brightness. I was the light, too; and that was destiny I would happily live for – to be the light that shines like a thousand suns, brighter than a dying star. It was a blissful moment and maybe every future is bright enough if it starts like this. 

Then everything went still before my eyes. I saw her again, opening her mouth unnaturally wide. My grandpapa once showed me a rabbit being eaten by a snake. That was similar. What came out was not here voice, but millions of voices combined together in the hideous cacophony.

And as I have already said many times before, I did not believe in magic. I did not want to know my future. After that, I wrote so many poems I lost count; but I still remember what she said to me. I can recite it if woken up in the middle of the night. It is engraved in light under my eyelids.

_So quick with your words and yet so shy,  
When the time of white frost and white light is nigh  
You shall face the end of the world of your own.  
Watch out for another flower in White Wolf’s soul._

I was twelve, but I knew, from the start, it is a very poor rhyme. I have never been too young to not to be good at poetry. But I also felt some unbearable gentleness towards it, because it was mine.

I don’t remember how I ran away from there. I think, it was that kind of speed you pick up when you are trying to outrun destiny. But I looked back once; the tent was gone and, on its place, danced a Midsummer fire.

Leaning on some wall, I tried to catch my breath. Probably, by that time, I have already realized magic existed, because you need a lot of power, a lot of supernatural power, to make the earth crumble under someone’s feet.

I breathed in. The air smelled of the sea. It was hot and loud and bright again. And I knew for sure it would not be as hot and loud, and bright as before ever again.

For people around me, nothing happened. I envied them.

Somebody in the distance said that the storm was coming. I looked up and the sky was perfectly blue. And yet, I somehow understood what they meant.

I had only so much time to regain my composure, before my friends surrounded me, asking what she had said.

Knowing that my eyes would hurt, I looked right at the sun.

And because I was born a poet, I said something like.

_You shall fight a dragon, as gold as a coin new.  
You shall win the battle and you shall not fall.  
You shall be greatest of all lads and lasses in love.  
Your deeds shall be praised.  
And crowd shall look at your masterpieces, amazed._

Geralt, don’t give me that look. That’s what I said.

And well, it was also a very poor rhyme. But I was not wrong. And, I think, neither was she.”

He stops, his throat dry from minutes of talking.

“Why did not you say anything?”

And, honestly, to answer this question he could write the whole book.


	2. Wheel of Fortune

When he sees a stranger sitting lonely in the corner, he does not think for a second; maybe it is his bad impulse control fault, but he also feels like he has to approach, this urge being almost irresistible.

He uses the same line he uses to pick up girls. _Waiting for somebody?_

No great story starts with these words, he knows. But, on the other hand, it is not like he plans for this to be a great story.

He does not plan anything at all. He speaks to him for the sake of speaking. Also, because he is different. The air around him is all mysterious. And he did not pay any attention to Jaskier’s song earlier. Maybe, after all, it’s just his curiosity get better of him.

_They don’t exist_ , he says as if it’s an answer. But what is new, many things Jaskier sings about do not; love, virginity, dignity, destiny. It’s all but stories for those who care enough to listen to his lyrics; for old innkeepers who saw nothing except their own villages; for beautiful maidens who are yet to cry over their lost innocence; for little boys who believe they will find greatness.

He has heard stories about Geralt; none of them are good enough, don’t do Geralt any justice; also takes him long enough to realize who is it before him. Well, he has not even been sure Geralt exists until now. But he knows he can tell better stories. He follows the witcher without the second thought.

Their first adventure promises to be wonderful. Like somebody wrote it for them.

They walk through the mountains old as the world itself. It smells of history, of thousand deaths, of Aen Seidhe Ichaer, he thinks, but says _you smell of destiny_. And it cannot be farther from the truth, because Geralt smells like an ill, but in a different way, body, like sweat and melted snow, like leather and herbs, and steel; but he feels like saying that, so he does.

Geralt, apparently, is not very fond of him talking, because he punches him. It hurts, but by this time he has managed to learn how to recover from about anything, from bruises left by cuckholds to his wounded pride.

For thirty minutes they know each other nothing happens. And then he says, again, without thinking, and as if he only was that good at thinking as he is at speaking, “All the North will be too busy singing the tales of White Wolf.”

Anything goes white as he understands what he said.

He bites his tongue, painfully.

Because, he is twenty now, and his childhood memories are long forgotten, but just one phrase triggers the flashbacks of all his sleepless nights, when he was unable to close his eyes because her words haunted him; it makes him think about all the opportunities he has denied, including his marriage with Moira. But he has learnt how to live with that, and he has almost stopped thinking about it every time he sleeps with someone else, but those undeliberate words just ruin his life in one second.

Jaskier does not know what it means for him, not exactly. He is not sure it’s a good thing to say anything. Maybe, if it’s really destiny or, at least, something close to it, he will get a chance. Besides, he knows very little about Geralt, but for all he knows, the witcher might probably kill him for saying _hey, you know, you are my destiny_.

He still does not believe in magic, but he knows magical creatures exist. Encountering the devil, however, is not as bad as he thought it could be. He is not afraid, though his heart is pounding too fast. He says, I have to see it, and the next thing he feels is a sharp pain and the world starts to darken.

When he wakes up, his head hurts worse than a hangover. The room – a cave more like – is spinning a little. He cannot move his arms, and he struggles a little, just to check if he can escape. His shoulder touches something solid and he turns his head just to see a white hair.

Great, now he is literally bound to Geralt.

The witcher is unconscious, but it does not last long. He awakens like somebody pour the cold water on him, pulling the binds violently.

He is not very optimistic about the whole situation, either.

Jaskier wonders if Geralt is ready to die all the time. And if he is, because he looks and talks like he is, why does he keep struggling beside him?

Somebody hits Geralt and, judging by the sound, it must be painful. Geralt stops pulling, goes completely still, like he has come to terms with their inevitable end.

Everything that happens after this is a kaleidoscope of sounds and images before his eyes, nothing too definite, because his vision is still unsteady. Geralt and the red-haired elf shout at each other, she hits him again and again, unfairly, like he is guilty of something; somebody tortures his lute, until it breaks.

In the middle of all that he hears _leave off, he is just a bard_ , and he appreciates the sentiment. What he does not really appreciate is that Geralt takes the beating for him.

The tide turns when Geralt finally finds an opening and knocks her down. And Jaskier might be a bard, but even he knows that it is almost impossible to defeat somebody with a forehead. Until Filavandrel shows up and explains everything. He suddenly feels ashamed, for Geralt being a brute force, even out of self-defence. For himself, too, because he gets into the conversation with Filavandrel, to talk about something he certainly knows nothing about, but he wants to look like he knows, because it is what people, humans, do. Always know better.

Jaskier is mortified by his own stupidity and insolence, but he is also relieved that Filavandrel let them go. He gives Jaskier the lute, to replace the one they broke; Jaskier says he will cherish it. He says, because he cannot think straight, _I believe that Dol Blathanna will be a great elven kingdom again one day_. Filavandrel does not smile, only nods.

They talk about something as they are on the path again. The sun is shining beautifully, making everything bearable. His wrists sting, and his head is unpleasingly heavy, but he starts singing; maybe it’s just a coping mechanism, the reaction to adrenaline.

The song sounds like an epilogue, in his head, because he wants to be dramatic. In reality, of course, it is just a beginning.

He still does not want anything to be decided for him, but he looks at Geralt, who looks like he does not want any destiny either, and maybe it’s not the worst-case scenario. In the end, he could have somebody worse as his fate.

Geralt walks him back to Upper Posada and they have the most normal conversation Jaskier has ever had. Well, Geralt mostly grunts and hums, and makes mean comments, while he does the talking, but at least, it is normal. Jaskier is not sure that destiny is supposed to feel like this.

And when it’s time to part, on the verge of a new day, when stars are still shining, but the sky is not so dark anymore, it does not hurt. It is not like something important being teared off of him. Maybe because it is not a farewell. Maybe because destiny does not exist, after all.

Jaskier does not know what he was thinking. Of course, he imagined it would be different. Like, he sees Geralt and understands suddenly _this is it_.

“Maybe I can go with you?” he asks, for a good measure, rising his eyebrows. He knows the answer, but he wants to be sure; he wants to check, whether destiny – or whatever it is – comply.

“No.” Geralt answers without any emotions and pulls the reins, making Roach turn around, away from the city gates.

“Can you at least tell me where are you going?”

Geralt stops the horse and turns his head slightly. “West,” he says, after a dramatic pause.

Jaskier stays near the gates, until he cannot see Roach anymore. He barely thinks anything as he loses the sight of Geralt. It does not mean anything, yet. Because he does not fall in love and the world does not end.

_The begging on the edge of the world_ , he thinks. _How promising_.

He will never sing about it.

Probably.

He will find him later, Jaskier decides. He does not need to know where Geralt goes, after all. Destiny, if it is indeed destiny, will bring them together no matter what.

Jaskier enters the city, a small voice singing a long lost or not yet written song about someone once followed a wolf through the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Jaskier says "I believe that Dol Blathanna will be a great elven kingdom again one day", and I strongly believe that if something came out almost 25 years ago you cannot have spoilers for that, so (just in case you did not read the book, consider to stop reading after this) Dol Blathanna indeed will be a great elven kingdom again. Or, I mean, it definitely will be the elven kingdom. Or some sort of state. Aen Seidhe Ichaer means the blood of the elves. Or something like that. My elder speech is a bit rusty. The last sentence, well yeah. It’s that song.


	3. The Tower

He has not known Geralt for a long time, but maybe he should have guessed it would be a bad idea. But Jaskier asks him anyway, to escort him to Calanthe’s ball.

Jaskier met Geralt at Nastrog, not long ago; he was right, after all, destiny brought them together. He ended up here accidentally, wandering around the Continent, so did Geralt. The witcher found a job here, though. This one is about Selkie, no less. A horrible creature, Jaskier is sure. And he is glad he did not get to see it with his own eyes, this time, sitting in the warm tavern, drinking the local stout that tastes more like misery than the hop.

Geralt comes back, covered in blood and Melitele knows what else. Very dramatic. At least they have something in common.

Jaskier knows that Geralt is not particularly interested in food, women and wine, but he uses this bait anyway. He knows also, on the edge of his mind, that Geralt would not say no anyway.

He asks Geralt if he, perhaps, cares for a bath. Jaskier has his own selfish reasons, and seeing Geralt naked is not one of them. The probability of Geralt saying no is very high. He says yes, looking at Jaskier like the bard offered him to have a threesome with a fish.

*******

Jaskier washes him, and touching Geralt’s skin does not bear lightnings under his fingers. He wonders if destiny, indeed, does not send heralds and that’s why it’s not different to touching others. But there is also an unmistakable ambiance of the moment that makes his head spin; a fragile intimacy of touching something that is yours and yet you don’t really know whether you have it or not.

“Is this a new one?” Jaskier touches his neck, carefully. He has never seen Geralt naked before, so he cannot possibly distinguish the old ones from the new ones, but he is not an idiot either. This one looks like somebody tried to bite a chunk out of Geralt’s neck.

“Yes,” Geralt answers, softly. He is relaxed, all pliant under Jaskier’s hands and the poet can tell he needs this. Needs the five seconds of calm before he brings the storm somewhere else.

He does not ask how Geralt got it. He wants to, but there is a possibility he will ruin everything with his stupid voice.

Jaskier watches Geralt as the man enjoys the hot water with his eyes closed. Geralt is not beautiful by any standards. And yet he heard girls at the tavern talking about him, giggling idiotically, discussing, perhaps, how the big bad witcher would ravage them on a hayloft. Imagining it. Craving it. Becoming wet only on one thought of his thick cock inside them, coming deep without a chance to sow a fertile seed. He would be so safe to fuck, every dirty fantasy in the flesh, and yet he is a barbarian, unknown, a mutant; one would say, a beast.

“Why did you stop?” Geralt asked dreamily. Or it is Jaskier who is dreaming, his movements lingering and heavy.

“I was thinking,” He offered, his voice different, strange, not his.

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, like the mere probability that Jaskier is capable of thinking is amusing, “About?”

“Uhm… Animals? You know, bulls and those big cats from Zerrikania, and cocks…” he bites the inside of his cheek.

“Cocks are birds.”

“Yeah, sure, witchers know better,” he mutters under his breath and he is sure that Geralt can hear him, but he does not comment.

He wets the cloth and touches Geralt’s chest with it. He is gentle, being careless seems overkill; Geralt has probably suffered enough as it is.

Geralt is handsome, though. In some savage, untamed, unbowed way. A strong jaw, his chin bears no weakness either. His nose is a little misplaced, but it is an occupation hazard, he presumes. Geralt denies kings with these brows, he realizes suddenly. He sways maidens with the slightest quirk of this mouth. He sees what he thinks they see; and, damn, the temperature is not getting lower and his vision is blurred because of the steam, and his eyes are surprisingly, embarrassingly wet.

He rubs under Geralt’s chin and it is wonders of wonders how he even let somebody do this. Jaskier, of all people. They are not friends enough and yet he can feel something forming between them. Maybe it is just him. Maybe it’s not him at all, but the wish of the universe.

Jaskier swallows audibly, but Geralt is still not looking at him. And maybe it’s good, because he is not sure he is ready to look him in the eyes, with only a span between them.

“I need to wash your hair,” he whispered and Geralt gives him a small nod.

He scoops water with his hands, and it seems like too much moving, because he is suddenly very tired. His legs are shaking and he barely can breathe; it is steam, it must be, setting him on the verge of fainting. The room starts smelling like oils he added to the bath earlier; clovenlip, narcissus, love-lies-bleeding, and the sweet aroma does not make it easier for him to breathe, too.

Jaskier picks up the soap from the floor and lathers his hand and then, finally, starts massaging Geralt’s head, time slows down even more. For Jaskier, they are under some sort of spell, and magic still does not exist, but destiny probably does; destiny is not magic, though. Destiny is an astrology and an alchemy and a good measure of a bad luck. It is primal and it is chaotic. It is also impatient, cruel, envious and proud.

He, perhaps, does it all wrong. Washes Geralt, that is. Deprived of any haste like they don’t have places to be. And they don’t, in this steamy bathroom deprived of the very concept of time as well as it is deprived of air. That’s why they take in each other breathes; survival reasons, nothing romantic, nothing ineffable.

And when he is done, he does not say anything. He knows the words for breaking this spell and this is the first time in his life he is really afraid of saying anything at all.

“I want nothing,” Geralt says suddenly, and Jaskier looks at him, surprised. It feels like a shred from some other dialogue they have never had, and yet somehow it fits.

“Well, who knows. Maybe someone out there will want you,” he does not know who puts these words in his mouth.

“No one. And the last thing I need is someone needing me,” he says it with such calmness that Jaskier understands instantly all those peasants who gossip about witchers’ lack of emotions. But maybe it is other senses witchers don’t have; because, apparently, this one is blind to see before his own eyes, and deaf to hear Jaskier’s heartbeat and an idiot, because of so many reasons.

And he too, is no more than a cynic, a lecher, a womanizer and a liar, and there is nothing complicated about him. He does not need Geralt yet, but he catches himself thinking that maybe he wants to need him, and that’s why he is frustrated, and that’s, mainly, why Geralt is being stupid. But he does not say any of this, and goes for so simple, meaningless, “And yet. Here we are.”

He suddenly feels incredibly sad. In another life somebody says _Incomplete happiness is like a kiss interrupted_. And he is not sure he wants to kiss Geralt, but it would be a perfect realization scene. Their lips touching and Geralt sees it, too, that they are meant to be together; sees it even before Jaskier does.

But nothing happens. And he is not very happy about it.

Jaskier does not know why.

Maybe it is destiny commanding to be fulfilled, making his life miserable because he does not submit, does not accept the fact it exists in the first place.

Night is going to be long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is that line "a cynic, a lecher, a womanizer and a liar, and there is nothing complicated about you". It is a quotation from Sapkowski’s story called “A Little Sacrifice”. In the book, Geralt uses that to describe Jaskier (and you are free to speculate whether The Tower takes place after “A Little Sacrifice” or Jaskier is just aware of his own nature). The same goes for "Incomplete happiness is like a kiss interrupted", but this time, it is Jaskier who says it.


	4. The Devil

Pavetta is beautiful.

But completely does not know how to get married without causing so much troubles that he can sing about them forever.

Not that it is not beautiful. It is. And it leaves him thinking, how marvelous fulfilled destiny must feel. How complete, how content. And if he feels that way just from looking at the couple, he wonders how satisfying it must be for them. How sweet it is to finally give up, to admit they are no more but puppets for universe’s entertainment.

And yet, love, love’s everywhere. Their hearts, he can tell that from where he is standing, are alight with it, with the eternal fire, but of a different sort, not some religious bullshit. It is real, it is real. He envies them.

He thinks about how they saw each other once and understood, perfectly, that it was their destiny. Did Duny looked at her and said, without thinking, “You are mine”? Did she saw him from her balcony at the middle of the night, standing at the garden, like a ghost? Did some invisible force drag her to him in her night gown, only to whisper in the comfortable darkness, “I have been waiting for you my whole life”? And then was the kiss, of course, and his hands on her, heat and gentleness, and welcoming wetness and blood from hastiness. And the court did not really get to sleep that night, because they knew. And, it has to be, a new, beautiful star was born and other, old ones, screamed so loudly it made the sky fall.

But he also knows that nothing like that happened to him. He certainly imagines all that to make it into a song, does not he? And yet, the strange hope made a place in his heart. Like he can feel it too, he just needs to wait for a little while longer.

Geralt says, The Law of Surprise, and he does not understand at first why Calanthe looks terrified. Until he does.

The new star, indeed, was born that night.

Geralt leaves. He runs after him only when Mousesack returns; he cannot really say what the expression on druid’ face means. Nothing good, probably.

He throws his body into the street, and it is pleasant contrast from everything that happened that night. The air is cold and the sky above Cintra is endless.

“Geralt, wait!” he calls, seeing the witcher crossing the bridge between the castle and the city. Geralt stops, surprisingly, and waits till Jaskier catches up with him.

They go together down the quiet street. But the silence is unbearable, because the ball is still ringing in his ears. He thinks, today a new vacuum was formed in me. He thinks, I need to fill it with something. So, he opens his mouth.

“Can I ask you something?”

Geralt grunts.

“You want to ask about the child?”

He muses over this thought. Well, now he definitely wants to ask about the child.

“Yes.”

“Then, no.”

“One question?”

“No.”

He sighs.

“Can I ask something else?”

Geralt looks at him, like he is stupid. It does not matter what he is trying to achieve with this look; he fails anyway.

“So, are you going to return for them, when the time comes?”

And he really can see it coming. How Geralt turns to him and punches him, or just straight away beats him to death on some shady street of Cintra. But it never comes.

“Jaskier, I said no questions about the child,” he hears instead, and Geralt sounds sadly tired.

“But it is not about the child. It is about you,” Jaskier answers, and his voice comes out tiredly sad.

He does not say anything else. Ten meters and one heavy sigh later Geralt suddenly speaks, looking before himself like he is some sort of actor, reading a dramatic monologue from the scene, “Listen, I don’t believe in destiny. I told this before, it is but a fairytale for fools whose life is meaningless. Humans created destiny. They find joy in obeying the rules they made. I already have anything I need, so I refuse to participate. My fate was decided for me too many times, so now I refuse to simply watch choices are being made for me.”

Jaskier envies Geralt. He wants to say the same, but after what he witnessed today, after what it did to his soul, he cannot.

“What if… somebody came to you and told you were their destiny?”

“Oddly specific,” he gives Jaskier another look, but the bard just shrugs. “But the same. It does not exist either way.”

“Would not it be too harsh to say go away to somebody who believes you two are meant for each other?”

Geralt cannot tell future, so he says, “No. It would be merciful.”

And if it was not for destiny Jaskier would probably turn around and left instantly, without this itching need to stay, that was born inside him as Pavetta kissed Duny; this itching possibility of a chance that he, now, cannot let go of.

So, he just follows, without letting Geralt know that he is the biggest moron alive, without letting him know again that you know, you are my destiny, and I don’t care what you think about it, because universe has decided for us.

Maybe he should say that. He missed one chance already and Geralt has created destiny of his own. But how can he, if Geralt despises a mere thought of it so much. He does not want to give Geralt another chance to choose someone else one more time, but he finds himself unable to say anything. He bits his lip, looking at the witcher in the dim light of the street.

He will tell him, he decides. Once he can really trust Geralt, once he is sure Geralt won’t go, because there is no destiny to connect Geralt to him. He can outplay the universe, he realizes. They just need to become closer than destiny could ever bring them on their own.


	5. The High Priestess

They have not seen each other for a long time. That’s why it surprises him when, right after they finally reunites, Geralt is angry at him. Of course, the witcher does not say anything; but he is cold and distant, and visibly irritated; he has never been exactly a charmer with Jaskier, but he has not been this mean either.

The worst thing is, he instantly knows that it is Geralt who makes the wish. It hurts him to hear that the first thing Geralt wants to ask for is for Jaskier to shut up; it hurts almost as much as his throat hurts.

He hears Geralt’s voice, but does not understand the words, the world before his eyes vailed with red and black. He cannot say anything at all, and maybe that’s how death feels like, but he is surprisingly at ease with this.

Maybe it is better to die anyway, if Geralt so desperately wants to get rid of him. He does not have enough willpower to disappear from his life, so maybe death will do it for him.

When he finally closes his eyes, he is too tired to regret about things he has not done; but just because he is sure, even in this state, that his final thoughts must be about something sublime, he remembers that he has never revealed his secret to Geralt.

But it does not matter anymore.

*******

Jaskier wakes up and the room smells like lilac and gooseberries.

Apparently, dying is another thing he cannot do right.

He has only a moment to fully regain his consciousness and all he can think about is that the situation he is in cannot be good.

Jaskier is right, in his own way.

Because when his vision returns to normal, he sees her, almost naked, angry, reeking of power. He sang so many ballades in his life and some of them were about sorceresses, even if he did not really believe in them. And now he finally sees one and decides, almost instantly, that they all are just a bunch of mad bitches, every single one of them.

This one, though, is special. He cannot say why.

The sorceress says, screams, “Express your deepest desires and you can be on your way.” He plays along, because it is hard to say no to somebody who looks like this. He lies that his deepest desires were satisfied. But if he could ask, he would ask to change his destiny; and maybe he can even admit he wants it, but Geralt does not. And he does not want to want it this way.

She asks him about his throat, and he knows it is a rhetorical question, but it is the same time he realizes his body hurt unbearably, all of it. Adrenaline is not helping at all.

Jackier says he wants to leave this place for good. And he is not entirely sure what he really means by that. To escape from the sorceress? To disappear completely? To give up this niche he occupies in Geralt’s life? To escape from destiny?

He has never thought about this as a burden. Yes, he asked around for the solution. Yes, he did not say anything to Geralt. Nevertheless, he accepted it, a long time ago. But with every meeting Geralt becomes more and more hostile, and maybe something can be done about it.

Jaskier leaves the house, only to see Geralt’s worrying face and to find out that it is not him who Geralt worries about. He hates that the first person Geralt decides to care about is a damn sorceress he saw for a brief moment. They have known each other for years, and Geralt still gives as much fuck about his well-being as he gave the first time they met.

Maybe even less so now.

He would accept his reasons was it for the fact she saved his life alone. But it is a lie, and he sees it in Geralt’s eyes.

The weather worsens, as if in a bad romantic novel where changing weather means a change of a heart.

For a second, he thinks Geralt died. It is not unbearable. The world does not end. His world is still standing, too. But it is not comforting in the slightest.

The elf tells him that the the sorceress was magnificent. For him, she was just a wench that costed his friend a life. There is nothing magnificent in this. Death, it turns out, is not beautiful at all. It is anticlimactic and dusty, and empty. It smells like lilac and gooseberries, and storm.

It is not supposed to go this way. But has destiny ever been fair? Has universe ever complied with human desires?

Seeing them together is painful. It is not like he does not know that Geralt has slept with other people before, but actually seeing this is not anything pleasant at all.

And yet, he thinks, Geralt is beautiful with his face pained with pleasure.

He and elf, until the latter regains some sort of decency, look at the same picture, but see different things. Well, maybe not so different. The elf sees someone he loves, but has already lost. Something inside Jaskier whispers that he does, too.


	6. The Star

He likes it in Salm. A real city, at last.

That is the thing. He is only in the places he likes when he is without Geralt. And Geralt drags him into half-drowned cities and small towns where people sacrifice their own children to the spirit of winter, and swamps, and temples with all priestess being virgins (well, that one was not that bad), and even more swamps. The thing also is, he has no reasons to follow.

Except, you know. You cannot escape from destiny.

And he wishes he could. Because after Rinde he is not sure he even wants it, anymore. After he realizes how desperately Geralt strives to get rid of him. He is not even sure he can profess his secret to Geralt, because how he treated him. Could it still be destiny anyway, all things considered?

His destiny, however, does a very good job escaping from him, because Geralt left him in Salm after they left Rinde, saying something incoherent and yet surprisingly consistent, like _monsters. money. food_. Oh, dear Melitele, is it what his life has become?

He dies of boredom, here. Honestly, he likes it here, but he has gotten use to something else entirely by this time. He has spent three days here already, and nothing even remotely interesting has happened. He stays in the tavern, and it is a real tavern this time, with rooms and music in the evenings, and keeper listens to his stories, even if he is sick of them already. Maybe, it’s alcohol. He vaguely remembers somebody once said something about how unhealthy and impossible it is to drink for three days straight.

Well, it is. And he does not care.

The only good thing in all this, the keeper let him drink on the house.  
Maybe it’s not a good thing at all.

He is in the middle of telling the story he made up just now. The keeper, leaning on the counter, holding her chin in her hands, is listening very carefully, afraid of not catching the juiciest details. She shushes another client when he tries ordering a drink and Jaskier looks at him for a second like he is the worst traitor, and then continues.

“So, and then the witcher, with her eyes shining like two flames, greater than Deithwen Addan himself, and her white hair pure like a decent maiden, raised her swords and killed the vampire, who held a humble poet hostage…”

“Hey, I thought lasses cannot be witchers, only witches!” somebody yells so loudly that Jaskier can feel the walls vibrating. “The troubadour speaks shite!”

He rolls his eyes. _Critics_.

“Don’t listen to him, the sun of my life,” he says to the keeper and he practically sees her melting under the praise. “I have spent the fair share of my time with the witchers and the only thing I can say for sure is that we will never understand the depths of their souls.”

Near him, someone giggles. He turns his head.

He sees the white hair the first and then thinks, maybe it’s time he stops drinking. He takes another sip.

“I thought the witchers don’t have a soul.”

“Sometimes I am not even sure.”

She is young and petite, and her eyes are grey, like a storm, and he hates storms. She gives him a hand and he kisses it, instead of shaking.

Her hand is nice. Soft. Does not know a day of labour. He looks at her and he may be drunk, but the contradiction is obvious. She is dressed up like a peasant, but she is not the one by any means. Her hair – the two silky braids – is neat and well-tended. No commoners have it like this.

She smiles at him and her teeth are good, too. She is not even trying.

He knows her kind. Most importantly, he knows the games of her kind. Dressing up like a peasant, to escape from the daddy’s golden cage, even if it is only for two hours. He has never understood it, though. Nobody sane would ever want to pretend they are peasants, because nobody wants to be a peasant in the first place. And girls always speak about it like it is the greatest amusement. But it is a fundamental difference between boys and girls. Boys want to know their destiny; girls want to change it.

Though, this one he can understand.

“What is your name, oh, the most beautiful jewel in this city?”

She does not blush which is new.

He feels like the weight on the counter shifts and sees with the corner of his eye the keeper leaving. Pity. He likes her company as much as he likes her sincerity. The old ones are more interested in you; the young ones think they have stories to tell.

“It’s Hessa, good sir,” she looks down, because somebody, a young girl without a title, once presented herself like this to her, and she decided that this is how commoners must behave with masters. She is wrong. No lass he knows would behave so small with somebody dressed like he is. No lass he knows would ever say _good sir_.

“No, no, the real one,” he blurts out.

She looks up instantly, her eyes widen and it takes her two seconds to realize. She smiles broadly.

“So, my little masquerade is no good?”

He does not want to tell her the truth, because it would mean to strip her away of her own little dream of becoming a doppler, but vodka does.

“I believe everyone here knows who your father is,” he shrugs.

It is not even a joke, but she bursts out laughing, like twelve years old, baring her neck; she is not allowed any of that at home, he sadly understands.

“Do you know?” she asks when she calms down, the corners of her lips still twitching slightly.

He shakes his head, “Nope. New in town. Waiting for my friend.”

“Oh, your pretty witcher, right?”

This is not magic. She is just smart.

“What is she like? Yellow eyes, blonde. What else? Tall, broad, muscular, big breasts? It’s always big breasts, right?” she waves at the keeper, his voice thick with childish curiosity.

Well, she got it all wrong. Definitely not magic.

“And you are the poet in this story, right? She saved you from a vampire? How brave!” the keeper places a pint near her and she nods. “I could never do anything like that.”

She drinks, looking at him over the mug, too big for her delicate hands.

“Understandable why you love her.”

She smiles like she knows something. She does not. But he smiles too, because even vodka is not allowed to dictate him not to be a perfect gentleman.

“I would not call it love. It is but a tender friendship indeed,” technically it’s not a lie.

“I saw your eyes. No man has those eyes when he talks about a friend.”

_She is smart_.

“What is your name?” she asks suddenly.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service.”

He could stand and make a reverence, but he does not trust his legs much.

“A viscount?” he can feel the eyes on his back as she exclaims it. “And travelling with the witcher? Wonders never cease.”

Indeed.

“Say, master Julian,” nobody has called him that in years. And it either the name or vodka suddenly starts to taste horribly in his mouth. “Does you interest lay exclusively in well-endowed witchers or…” she traces the edge of the mug with her finger. He swallows audibly at her choice of words. “Or us mere mortals still can spark some interest in you?”

She blinks at him, very slowly. It is supposed to be seductive, but such antics at this point only annoy him.

But it could be interesting. It could be fun. It could give him a chance to spit destiny in the face, saying _it is I who make my choices_.

Who is he kidding? It would never be interesting or fun. But he is rather bored and the girl, whose name he has already forgotten, is probably incredibly boring. A match made by destiny itself; and he has something to say to it, too.

“Depends on what you propose.”

“Come on, let me show you?”

He has reasons to refuse, not to follow, this time. He decides against it anyway.

*******

It is a lovely evening. The end of the summer, not cold enough to stay indoors all the time, not hot enough to stay outdoors.

She takes his hand and leads him to the city gates and it is just a little suspicious. Nothing serious, definitely not the reason for sobering up instantly.

At least her hand is pleasant. He has not seen such a clean body for months now.

“So, where are we going?”

“Into the woods,” she says and he cannot see her face, but he can hear her smile.

“As much as I hate to admit it, I am not terribly fond of the forests. So maybe we better, you know…”

“Is this the attitude your witcher has to tolerate all the time? My, she has a patience of Saint Lebioda, no less.”

He chocks on her insolence, but does not bite out. She is not wrong. Even Geralt, who is not supposed to have feelings at all, started to lose his patience with him after all.

Keeping up with her pace is difficult. She is so much younger than him, and so much more alive. He is envious again; but, on the other hand, she probably does not have destiny standing above her. Which is a reason to be even more envious, of course.

“Why there?”

“It’s quiet. Very romantic.”

Unless some monster decides to bite your head off, he does not say. Geralt has ruined him for _romantic_.

He turns away to see the last rays of the sunset before they enter the forest. With all dramatism he has inside him, he thinks that, at least, if they die, he looks at the sun one last time.

*******

“You want some?” she asks him as they pass through enormous trees and roots. His eyes darts to a small delicate pipe, with a golden serpent wrapped around it as an ornament. He lifts one eyebrow. “Oh, a good stuff. Daddy has a mage of his own. Every dog now has, I suppose,” she rolls her eyes to the sky, hidden by crowns. Maybe it should make her look like a philosopher, ranting about the greatest mysteries of life, but for him, it makes her futile. “So, I sneaked into her office and stole a little,” she smiles, as if she is proud of her own infantilism.

“So, you don’t even know what it is?” he asks warily and bites his lower lip.

“Oh, but I do. I studied in Aretuza. Not for too long, though. I was not especially successful, so daddy decided he did not want to pay anymore.”

Well, that, of course, does change everything.

“Sure, why not.”

There is a lot less bravado in him that he gives out. But she smiles again, not noticing how fake his enthusiasm sounds.

They walk for forever which, in reality, a little more than ten minutes, but time does not exist where people don’t and it is not a secret that forests are not very crowdy places. He is too busy trying to memorize their way and he is not nearly drunk enough to be comfortable about the whole situation, so he misses the moment they stand in the centre of the woodside, and she sits and tugs him down.

He also misses the moment it has become this dark, but seeing the starry sky again is a relief.

“Do you know anything about the stars?” she asks him, as if reading his thoughts. She whispers something to the pipe and suddenly it is kindled. She catches his gaze, but only shrugs on silent question. “Aretuza. They had to teach me something.”

He decides to let this one slide.

She takes the first puff, breathes out smoothly, like she used to do it.

“So, stars?”

“I don’t believe I do,” she puts the pipe in his hands. He coughs, realising the smoke from his lungs. He has never tried anything like that before; sweet at first, like berries, but leaves a bitter aftertaste. Classic.

He also knows a lot about stars. He has to win women’s hearts over with something. But it seems pointless to talk right now, specially about that. He is not going to win her heart over anyway,

“Too bad,” but she does not sound upset as she takes the pipe from his hand. “The sky is beautiful though, don’t you think?”

Jaskier does. But he likes his sky better when the smoke from campfire wreathes high. He likes his sky better when there is death around them, but it is easy to pretend to be unbothered, because he is safe. And this one, yes, beautiful, but ordinary to a fault.

He feels the pipe over his lips, realizing she holds it for him, and he breathes in, closing his eyes, listening to balm-crickets for a moment, until he hears a thud beside him and imagines that whatever they smoke finally reaches its destination, so she is not able to hold anything in her hands any longer.

“I want to have sex. Do you want to have sex?” she asks drowsily, out of the blue. Maybe he is dozing off a little, too, because this world is suddenly too heavy on his shoulders and his legs are made from cotton, and his vision is a little unclear. She does not wait for his answer, straddling him, pinning him with such a force that he hits the ground with his head.

Geralt would laugh at how defenceless and slow he is now.

More than he usually is, which is remarkable.

“Whoa, wait, wait, wait!” he whimpers, trying to buck her off. She, apparently, considers it a foreplay, judging by the way she rocks her hips after his movements. “Okay, sure, do you have anything for not to, uhm…” because the last thing he needs is another knocked up girl.

She leans to his ear and breathes out. “Drink potions every day. Daddy’s order.”

He feels her smile against his neck, and he does not want to know why somebody would say something like this. He also does not want to know what she means.

She unfastens his trousers, quickly, methodically; reminds him of sex he had on streets where somebody could catch you anytime. Maybe she wants it that bad. Maybe, for her, everything goes too slow as for him everything is too fast. Maybe, there is another reason, but he prefers not to think about stuff like that when he has a choice.

Jaskier is not sure it is even possible to sober up this quickly after drinking for three days, and _he is not sober_ , so he really doubts his ability to get it up. But she strokes him, too rough for his taste, and he cannot help but feels the pleasant warm in the bottom of him abdomen. Maybe it is because of what they smoked.

Stars above them just as plain as the sky, and it is also the only thing he can see in the endless darkness; they do not grant wishes, nobody does those days. But if they did, he would wish to be far away from this again. This as if in everything, this exact situation, destiny, Geralt’s life.

The girl hums happily, distracting him from looking at the sky; he hears fabric rustling. Stars wink at him, in the cruel mockery, it must be.

She is hot inside, but it’s nothing new. Sex, as it is, has never been something outstanding, something marvelous; and he has never looked for this alone. But in his craving for intimacy, for something more complex, he fails all the time, stumbling over mundane and vulgar things.

The pleasantry of being misunderstood victim washes over him; the sweet humbleness of being not discriminating enough to turn down any offer whatsoever. Like he could find something beyond simple satisfaction of basic needs in one-night stands.

“Hey, still with me?” she whispers, rocking lazily.

“Yeah, yeah, just keep going.”

He is suddenly very aware how almost every single one of them feels, lying in the king’s bed or in the dirt – little difference here – waiting for this to end. He knows it’s not the same, but somehow, it hurts him as much.

Jaskier is not exactly reluctant. He cannot call it a bad thing. But something is really off, and now he can’t even tell how he got there in the first place.

“You are so big. So good,” the girl moans, loud and wanton, breaking the merciful silence. Jaskier can hear other things, too; him moving inside her and wind howling; it deafens him.

She leans closer again and he gulps, his throat completely dry. He can smell her, too, something earthy and child’s sweat, completely suffocating in his state.

“Julian,” she whispers.

Her movements become faster, erratic, and she keeps saying his name, like it is some kind of a spell, even if it means nothing to them both. It wakes something primal in him, but not the desire to own, to possess; instead, it is a strange urge to flee. He starts struggling, with a new found vigor, like all alcohol has finally left him, but to no avail.

She moves away a little, still close, their breathes entwining; he does not know who kisses who first, but it’s a slow, sloppy kiss without any passion behind it, wet and all lips. He does not close his eyes, and he regrets it immediately, because she does not either, and then, suddenly, he can see it very clear. Her irises, alight in white, and sky, violet, with stars lit in royally yellow.

He chocks on the air and freezes, afraid to move as if it is some dangerous beast before him. And probably it is, he does not trust his sanity anymore.

“I’m glad you remember me.”

She speaks to him in thousand voices, ringing inside and outside of his head. He wants to look away like his life depends on it, but can’t, some unstoppable force just won’t let him do it, giving her time to look for something in his eyes. Something which he knows is not there anymore; no great future. He feels like he has already lost all his battles.

She does not stop moving, picking up the pace, making it even harder to breathe.

“What won’t you tell him? You have suffered enough, too. You will continue suffering. Unless you tell him. Your destiny is written on the stars, and they don’t understand why you can’t just give in. You are trying to postpone the inevitable, but you can’t. It is not supposed to hurt that much.”

He clings to her shoulders, with strength he does not know he had in him; if she was a human, it would probably hurt her badly, but she does not even wince. He feels like he should answer, but he does not know what to say, because she is right.

“I will make it easier. Make into something you will not be able to avoid. It could have been so simple, you just had had to admit it. So, one more prophesy. Freely. Consider it’s a gift.”

“No, please,” he croaks, his usually high, melodic voice sounds all wrong, like he is suddenly thirty years older. “I don’t want to…”

But she does not listen.

He hears the tiniest voice of a little girl in this completely still world around them, where nothing else exists.

_Every flower wither right after its bloom._  
_And you can replace the flower, but cannot_  
_Compete with the swallow._  
_Witcher is running from something as if he can sense,_  
_From this fight he shall come out without a friend._

He comes, screaming, trying to outcry the echo of her voice in his memory; it is completely dark around them again. He breathes hard, unable to catch even the quietest sound from the girl.

It takes some time to realize that he is completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deithwen Addan means The White Flame (aka Emhyr var Emreis, also known as the greatest man ever).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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